


Pomegranate

by purplesocrates



Series: The Altar of Hades [1]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, M/M, Pomegranates, so pretentious, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-17 16:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11855478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesocrates/pseuds/purplesocrates
Summary: “Hello Will.” The voice that is the narrator of his dreams, the man that is the keeper to his mind, the guardian of all his secrets opening the door and welcoming him inside to warm himself at his hearth. It is almost too much for Will to believe, he feels like a pagan worshipper meeting with his god in human form, out of his depth awaiting the trick that turns the juice from the pomegranate into blood dripping down his chin, consciousness taken from him as easily as fruit plucked from a tree.He walks in regardless of the swirl of thoughts in his brain, a quagmire of confusions that threatens to pull him down into its heavy, dark depths.  Hannibal is the light that he can see if he tilts his head up just before drowning, the light that shines in his eyes and beckons him to kick his legs and fight. So he sits as he always does and takes the glass of thick, velvety red wine attempting not to taste pomegranates as he brings the liquid to his lips and swallows.





	Pomegranate

 

Insipired by this [gif](https://purplesocrates.tumblr.com/post/164214078571/grahamsdogs-we-can-tell-no-one-x-oh) and this [tumblr post](https://purplesocrates.tumblr.com/post/164397424791/begintoblur-he-s-dead-jim)

 

Snow is falling outside blanketing the world in a comforting silence, muffling all sound to a soft din rather than the sharpness that usually assaults Will’s ears. The air is cold, cooling his skin, he likes winter he likes the simplicity of it. The quiet sleepy feel of the early morning darkness, the shorter days, the longer nights it makes a certain kind of sense to him.  He listens to the snow fall, that wonderful silence, that glorious numbness, ice touching heat cooling the surface.  Watching snowflakes melt in the palm of hand, his body is too hot, his skin too warm, heat leaves him in waves but at least in the snow he can watch it go, see the effects of his heat it's not just wasted energy he feels a part of something.

 

Will knows he needs to go inside, he needs to walk up the steps of this imposing building open the door and sit or more likely stand in the waiting room until the door is opened.  The door will reveal the man inside the room, the warmth of a fire, the comfort of a glass of easily proffered wine, finely boned fingers wrapped around a stem of a glass brushing against his already too hot skin. The room will reveal Will’s secrets to himself and to the man who sits so carefully inside, so open and waiting to take Will’s secrets to smooth his edges for him, to cool his heat.  Will dreads and anticipates these meetings.  He dreads and anticipates Hannibal.

 

Eventually he can feel in his stomach that it's time, he looks at his watch and is proved right, exactly half past.  He watches the sigh leave his mouth in a cloud of freezing particles that look like steam or smoke. One last glance up to the dark starless night and the feeling of melting snow on his face, the tunnel of white dots falling from too greater height to see the edge they fall from. He imagines it though, closer than it is, a frozen precipice.

 

 

“Hello Will.” The voice that is the narrator of his dreams, the man that is the keeper to his mind, the guardian of all his secrets opening the door and welcoming him inside to warm himself at his hearth. It is almost too much for Will to believe, he feels like a pagan worshipper meeting with his god in human form, out of his depth awaiting the trick that turns the juice from the pomegranate into blood dripping down his chin, consciousness taken from him as easily as fruit plucked from a tree.

 

He walks in regardless of the swirl of thoughts in his brain, a quagmire of confusions that threatens to pull him down into its heavy, dark depths.  Hannibal is the light that he can see if he tilts his head up just before drowning, the light that shines in his eyes and beckons him to kick his legs and fight. So he sits as he always does and takes the glass of thick, velvety red wine attempting not to taste pomegranates as he brings the liquid to his lips and swallows.

 

Conversation flows with each steady and deliberate lifting of a wineglass, swallowing of liquid, warmth spreading inside Will as he feels his defences thawing in the gentle heat of this room, the comfort of Hannibal's understanding, acknowledgment and acceptance. An unburdening, unravelling, uncoiling. Will feels like he is stretching every sinew he has until they are all unfurled and relaxed in the heat, glistening in the firelight, laid bare for Hannibal to run his fingers softly across.  Will shivers from the image.

 

“Will.” The way Hannibal says his name always breaks his revelry.  “Are you cold?”

 

Will is the furthest from cold, he imagines the outside and the cool air, the frozen snow falling from the sky. He longs to be cold, to be numb. Their hour is finished as is the wine in his glass which he  places with care on the coaster on the table next to the chair. Will stands and smiles “no, just tired I think.” He speaks with care as he moves to the window to look at the snow falling more heavy now and imagines the cold weight of a snow drift pressing against his skin.

 

Hannibal watches and allows the silence to linger and settle before he too places his glass of wine on the table and gracefully gets up moving over to stand beside Will.  They both watch the snow fall outside, white against the black, the orange from the street lights illuminate the shape of the street, its quiet and the fresh snowfall hides any footprints previously made.  A blank canvas awaits.

 

Will can feel Hannibal's gaze shift from the street outside to his face, his skin prickling under the  intensity of it.  Looking at the snow falling Will imagines all the words he longs to say falling from his lips onto the floor between them, melting into a pool of water then dissipating into steam, mingling with the molecules in the room, eventually being breathed in by Hannibal and then gently expelled back out.  He imagines Hannibal's lungs expanding and collapsing in a perfect rhythm his words caressing the tissue before they are sucked up through his throat.

 

Then he feels the weight of Hannibal’s hand resting on his shoulder, fine fingers curving around the shape of the muscle and bone gently squeezing. Will turns his head to look at the hand placed there, he would know those hands anywhere, he wants to feel them on his skin.

 

“Will.” That gentle repetition of his name is like a spell being cast over him.

 

Turning his body to face Hannibal, Will raises his eyes from the hand on his shoulder to meet Hannibal's gaze which is steady but questioning.   Will wants to speak.  He wants to pluck words from a tree and give them to Hannibal like ripened fruit. Instead he sighs and imagines that freezing cloud of breath again.

 

Will smiles in the absence of words and Hannibal reflects this gesture back at him showing his teeth pointed and sharp, Will cannot help but imagine them piercing skin, blood like juice flowing out underneath them and he shivers again. 

 

“I should go.” Will finally finds some words but they are not the ones he wanted they are not the ones growing in his stomach clawing their way up his body, sharp thorns scraping against his organs causing them to bleed.

 

“You could stay. I have no other clients. You could have another glass of wine with me.” Hannibal offers these words to Will so easily, they fall from his lips and land on Will’s skin melting like the snowflakes he watched earlier. It makes Will vibrate.

 

“I am not sure the FBI would approve.” Will’s mocking, defensive joking is heard as the glistening plea that it is but Hannibal doesn't mock, he understands as he always does. He understands the need to be understood.

 

“Then we can tell no one.” Hannibal’s words stir something further in Will, the spell is cast as a net it hangs in the air over them waiting to fall. Hannibal removes his hand from Will’s shoulder who catches it between them he leans in and kisses the knuckles feeling the soft skin stretched over delicate bones against his lips.

 

Hannibal watches Will as he presses his lips against Hannibal's hand the room is suddenly so still and quiet it's almost like the snow has moved inside. The crackling of the fire and the sound of their breathing is a current through the air connecting them together, pushing them towards each other with the inevitability of a crashing wave.

 

Will slowly lowers Hannibal's hand but he does not release it, fingers are still intertwined, he leans in further and presses those lips against Hannibal's mouth searching for those teeth which he longs to feel pierce the membrane of his skin. Hannibal opens up to Will so easily, the waiting warmth of his mouth, the soft scrape of their tongues as they finally speak a language they can both readily consume. Will runs his tongue along Hannibal’s teeth to feel the sharpness pressing against his flesh.

 

The kiss between them is soft and slow, like a prayer being sent and received. Will can feel the room retract the air constrict around them.  There is nothing but this, nothing but the taste of pomegranates lingering on both their tongues.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading this pretentious ridiculousness.... your comments keep my neurosis warm at night your kudos are little kisses on my cheek....


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